


I Had To Find You, Tell You I Need You

by LauraRoslin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Doctor!John, Gen, Hurt!Sherlock, Kidnapped, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, loving!John, scared!Sherlock, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraRoslin/pseuds/LauraRoslin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock left for a case and never returned. Three years later, after the detective is presumed dead, he is found and John Watson tries to help pick up and put together the broken detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of the characters. They belong to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and of course, ACD. The title comes from the Coldplay song, "The Scientist".

The phone that had received no good news in so long beeped, filling its owner with a sense of dread and hopelessness. He couldn’t handle another text message telling him they had made no progress. It had been so long, so long since he had heard the deep voice, the violin concertos at three in the morning, even the declarations of boredom and gunshots. He missed it all. He missed Sherlock.

Drawing himself out of his thoughts, John limped across the empty living room to dig his mobile out of the cushions of the couch. When it had fallen down there he couldn’t say, nor could he care. Just before his leg gave out, he sat on the couch and unlocked the mobile, his eyes flicking over the message. It didn’t register at first, as simple as the words were. He read it numerous times before the words hit him, before the initials hit him.  
 __  
We found him. –GL  
  
John didn’t know how to function, how to type out a response. All he could think about was sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock. Someone, he forced his fingers one by one to hit the keyboard and form mostly coherent words.  
 __  
Where? Tell me he’s okay. Alive. –JW  
  
He needed Sherlock, he needed that idiot genius of a man and he needed him to be alive. Three years without him had torn the good doctor apart, turned him into a shell of a man. It felt cruel to John and he had spent months cursing the heavens, cursing God, cursing any religious being he could think of for taking Sherlock from him. It had taken the better part of a year for John to confess part of his feelings for Sherlock and the rest of the year for them to act on it and trust each other that way. It wasn’t but a few weeks later when Sherlock was gone without a trace.  
 __  
He’s alive. On his way to Barts. They’re waiting for you. –GL  
  
He was going to see Sherlock. After so long, he was finally going to see the blasted detective, the man he owed his heart to. He couldn’t remember dressing as quickly as he did that day. It seemed like one minute he was a disheveled wreck and the next he just looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter at the surgery. After making sure his mobile was in his pocket, John Watson left 221b for the first time in months, hurry to hail a cab and get to St. Barts. He needed to see Sherlock.

_  
_

Just be warned, John. He’s not the same. –GL

John read the message, but he couldn’t focus on what it said. He could barely wrap his mind around Sherlock being alive, on him being so close. He couldn’t comprehend change or anything different about the man. Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock. It was all he could think about, nothing else even came close to mattering.

The cab ride seemed excruciatingly long, leaving John a nervous wreck by the time it stopped. He threw a few notes at the cabbie as he climbed out, flashing his medical badge as he slowed to walk through the doors.

“Doctor Watson, room 215. He arrived about fifteen minutes ago, but they don’t know when they’ll be putting him in a room,” a nurse explained, pointing down the hallway to an elevator. She seemed to understand John’s rush and was willing to help. For one of the few times, John was sincerely grateful for Mycroft Holmes. 

John found the room with ease—he still had the general layout of the hospital memorized after three years from all the time spent there with Sherlock—and walked into the empty room. It was a private room, large but not overwhelmingly so. The empty bed in the center of the room looked decently comfortable for a hospital bed and John could say the same for the couch and chair placed around the room. He took a deep breath and looked around the room again, checking his watch and mobile both. He had plenty of time to get coffee and return before Sherlock would be in the room, and then even more before the detective woke up. 

He thought the time was passing slowly, but after his fourth cup of coffee, he realized it had been nearly four hours since he arrived, an hour since Sherlock had been taken into the room. The sight of the unconscious detective had sent John’s heart and stomach into his throat. Seeing him, half as thin as he was before, deathly pale, and not moving—but the heart monitor was beeping and it was a small measure of reassurance. John took in the pathetic sight of his lover, wishing there was something more he could do to help. A breathing tube and ventilator insured he continued breathing, and IV kept him hydrated, and medications kept him sedated and unconscious, a picture of death.

Two more cups later Sherlock still hadn’t awoken. His heart monitor had sped up a little and the nurse shift had switched, but still the detective slept on. John barely felt the draws of exhaustion; it was something he was used to after three years. He knew it was late, or early, but he didn’t dare sleep. He needed to be there and be awake when Sherlock did wake up. He had to be there. He needed to see those brilliant eyes, needed to see the gears turning in his head. 

It was nearly sunrise before John started drifting off. His head would lull onto his shoulders and his eyes would close until he would shake himself awake and look over to Sherlock. As sunlight was filtering into the room, Sherlock’s hand twitched. John’s brow furrowed and he looked up, focusing on the pale hand. It didn’t move for a few moments, but then the entire arm shifted and a muffled groan sounded. John leaned forward and watched amazed as the major limbs shifted slightly and his eyes fluttered. He groaned again and John immediately moved the chair to the edge of the bed, lightly resting his hand on Sherlock’s. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered softly, stroking his hand. “Sherlock, you’re fine.”

The detective’s head turned from side to side, vaguely like a head-shake, and his eyes blinked open, not focusing for a few moments. His hand tensed under John’s and he shifted it away slightly, his body trembling as he coughed violently. He could see Sherlock’s muscles moving under the thin layer of skin and fat, especially the ones in his neck as he tried to swallow and talk around the breathing tube. It only resulted in garbled gibberish, but it was still Sherlock and he was okay. 

“I had to find you,” he whispered softly, continuing to rub circles on Sherlock’s hand. “I had to find you, tell you I need you.”

Sherlock’s body went still and his eyes fell shut again as he was slowly pulled back under, an overwhelming amount of medications rushing through his veins. John watched and never let go of his hand, feeling awake now that he had gotten this brief glimpse of his detective.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock awakens.
> 
> I still suck at summaries and it's midnight when I'm writing this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of these characters and I probably never will.

It was nearly the next night before Sherlock regained full consciousness. John had remained awake and vigilant, even as nurses delicately removed the breathing tube and upped the medications a bit. He watched as the frail detective shifted uneasily on the bed, eyelids fluttering but never quite opening. He had dozed off again when he heard the coughing and slightly increased heart rate which caused his eyes to open quickly.

“Sherlock?” He asked softly, tentatively, eyes roaming over the sheet-clad body but receiving no audible or visible response for a few moments. 

The thin man’s chest rose and fell slightly with each breath and his eyes fluttered open a little before closing again. After a few minutes, they opened a little more and looked toward John, glassy and a little unfocused, but they were open and conscious. Half-open, the pale eyes remained on the unmoving John, taking him in and absently comparing the new John to the old John.

“John.” The word was intended as a question, as a statement that he was there, as a breath of life and a grip on to reality. That wasn’t how it came out. The single word, the name, was shaky and quiet, it was desperate and a whimper, it was full of pain and fear, a word trying to cling to a raft in the midst of a raging ocean. 

John moved closer to the bed, gently slipping his hand into the pale one. He squeezed to show he was there and met the eyes firmly, managing a slight smile as he let out a breath. It didn’t matter what had happened or what would happen. Sherlock was here and John would make sure he would be okay. Mentally and physically. He would do anything for this man, but the one thing he wished he could do was to take all of this away. He wanted to take the machines off and make him stand, make him run across London and prove he was okay.

“Hey, ‘Lock,” he whispered instead, surprised his voice remained soldier-steady. “How do you feel? Do you want a nurse? A doctor? Are you okay?” He forced himself to stop, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock more than he probably already was. He squeezed his hand again, gently, and remained silent to wait for some sort of a reaction.

Sherlock didn’t react at first, mostly functioning from his mind and not his body. He felt like his body was too broken, too unstable to function out of so he locked himself in his mind and he didn’t know if it was safe to venture out yet. He hadn’t in nearly two years. He swallowed, his throat raw from the breathing tube and lack of liquids or anything of sustenance.

“N-n-n-no,” he finally managed to say coherently, cringing away immediately after as much as he could as his eyes fell away from John to look submissively at his lap.

John felt like his heart simultaneously exploded, imploded, and dropped into his stomach. 

“No? No doctor, okay.” John wanted to reassure Sherlock, to get him to look at him. This wasn’t Sherlock; this was a cruel and pale shadow of him. It was nothing close to the real man. 

Sherlock didn’t cringe, Sherlock wasn’t submissive or careful. Sherlock gallivanted around London without a fuck given, Sherlock was dominating and careless. This couldn’t be Sherlock, not his Sherlock.

“Sherlock, love, it’s okay. It’s just me, just John.” He gave him a small smile, hoping to encourage him and draw him out of himself. He knew what Sherlock was doing, what he had done. It tore him up inside because he knew how hard it was to get him to come out again and that was only after a few hours, maybe a few days. If he had been like this for three years, who knows how long it could take to draw Sherlock out of his mind.

Swallowing hard, John squeezed his hand yet again. “I love you,” he murmured simply, shifting so he could meet his love’s eyes as he said it. “Please nod, Sherlock Holmes, please nod and tell me you understand and love me too. I haven’t heard it in so long and I’ve missed you. I need to tell you I need you.”

Sherlock blinked a few times and swallowed, his body shifting slightly on the bed before he weakly squeezed the elder man’s hand back. “Don’t cry.” The words were mumbled and raspy, inaudible if John hadn’t been listening desperately for them. “Please…” 

John thought his voice sounded so uncertain and he felt his heart going through the same constricting and contracting motions again. He used his free hand to wipe at the tears he was unaware were falling. He swallowed again and took a deep breath, steeling himself and trying to be strong.

“Love you.” John smiled a little more at the words and slowly moved close to Sherlock, giving him plenty of time to recoil before he pressed a kiss to his cheek. He felt the weakened man tense up and sensed him retreating into his mind again, but John let him. 

He knew it was too soon to force things on Sherlock regardless of how much the army doctor needed him. He had to be strong for Sherlock and help him pick up the pieces. John knew if he didn’t do that, then there might not be much of a Sherlock left for him to need. That thought alone ripped John’s heart into more pieces than Afghanistan did.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns more about Sherlock's predicament and wants to know how he can help. The next chapter will include Sherlock's mental evaluation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took me this long! I've been without a computer for quite awhile, but I promise--now that I have a computer--to try to update semi-regularly.
> 
> I still don't own any of the characters. They still belong to Gatiss, Moffat, and ACD.

John watched as Sherlock drifted back off to sleep before he squeezed his hand and let go. He looked over the frail man in the bed before he left, searching for the doctor so he could find out what had happened to his best friend. As we walked, he decided calling Greg would be a good idea too. For the first time in too long, John Watson felt like he had a purpose, a reason for being around. He had to help Sherlock, take care of him. He was happy to do that because Sherlock had done that for him. He sent a few quick texts to Greg just before he found the doctor, gratefully unoccupied.

“I need to know what happened to him.” There wasn’t a need for John to say who; the doctor knew all too well. “I need to know what to expect so I can help him. I can’t go into this blindly. It will just hurt him more.” He couldn’t stand the thought of accidently hurting Sherlock because he wasn’t aware of something.

The doctor regarded John in silence before he pulled out a pad of paper. He scribbled a few things on it and ripped it off before handing it to him. John looked the paper over and held it tightly in his hand as he looked back to the doctor.

“Hand this to the head nurse on duty. She’ll get you his records and anything else you’ll need.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, already turning and headed back toward Sherlock. 

John found the nurse at the nurse’s station, a game of solitaire on the computer in front of her. He went around the corner to stand in front of her. She looked up at him after a moment and smiled warmly. Without a word, John handed her the paper and watched as she read over it.

“It’ll take a few minutes to get everything printed out,” she explained, “so if you want to wait in his room, I’ll bring them to you.” John nodded and slowly trudged back to Sherlock’s room, feeling exhaustion settle deeply into his bones.

 He pushed the door open and stood by it for a moment, just watching Sherlock sleep and sighing to himself. Even in sleep the detective didn’t look peaceful. John sat down by the bed and took his pale hand, stroking it softly as he tried to ignore the harsh coughs and uneven breathing coming from him. The nurse came in a few minutes later with a stack of papers and cup of coffee. He took both and smiled gratefully, immediately turning to them.

“Sherlock Holmes… 35…” he murmured as he read, skimming over the basic information he already knew. “Pneumonia, two broken ribs…” The physical injuries didn’t seem all that bad; he had a good chance of a full recovery. He was mainly worried about Sherlock’s mental state and he knew he wouldn’t find much of that in here. Not until a psychiatrist came in to talk to him and John knew that wouldn’t go over very well.

John was torn from his thoughts by a weak squeeze of his hand. He looked up from the papers and at his hand, then to Sherlock’s face. The man’s eyes were open and focused on him, but they were still glassy and a little distant. John smiled slightly and squeezed his hand back.

“Hello, there,” he murmured softly, smiling a little more. Sherlock’s lips quirked up slightly.

“John…” he rasped, his eyes closing again as he coughed. “How… How long?” John set the papers aside and moved to the edge of the chair to be closer to Sherlock.

“It’s been two years,” he answered quietly, his own eyes closing briefly. “The doctor won’t say when you’re good to go home.” He knew that was because they had to assess his mental state. Sherlock let out a breath and carefully shifted around in the bed with a wince.

“I don’t… I don’t want to remember.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible and John had to lean close to hear him.

“I know, love. I know you don’t…” he paused and took a deep breath. “You don’t have to right now. But if someone comes in to talk to you, I need you to remember.” Sherlock’s expression confirmed just how little he wanted to do that. “I know, I know. You don’t like it, but you need to. That way I can help you.” He intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s and gave his hand a tight squeeze. “If you talk to them, I can help you. I’ll make sure they don’t send you anywhere. I’ll make sure you can come home as soon as possible and I’ll never leave your side.”

“I want to go home now.” Sherlock sounded almost like a child and it tore at John’s heartstrings. John pushed his chair closer to the bed so he could lean against it.

“Soon, ‘Lock, soon. Just focus on getting better. That pneumonia sounds pretty nasty.” He was relieved when Sherlock finally gave a slight nod and closed his eyes. “And don’t be afraid to sleep. It’ll help you get better. We’ll just take this one step at a time.”

Sherlock smiled slightly and started to drift off to sleep, feeling safe with John’s hand in his. He knew his doctor wouldn’t allow anything to touch him. John glanced down at the papers and then at Sherlock, deciding that he should use the time to sleep too. He carefully shifted his and Sherlock’s hand so he could rest his head on the bed. He felt the warmth coming off Sherlock’s body and it quickly lulled him to sleep, relieved to have Sherlock back regardless of his physical and mental state.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his decision about seeing a therapist despite his raging pneumonia and panic-inducing nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said his psych evaluation would be this chapter, but I realized how little I know about that, so I pushed it off a chapter. Which means, if you have any advice/experience, that would be appreciated. Otherwise I'll have to break some of John's promises and make Sherlock go through it on his own. So... Don't make me break him more, please. I'd like to have something of him to continue this story with.
> 
> Anyway, still don't own the characters and make no money whatsoever off this or the characters.

 

John’s first conscious thought was that something was wrong. Even before he opened his eyes, his senses were on alert and his body tensed. He opened his eyes and glanced around the room, relieved to see he was still alone with Sherlock. He took his time looking the other man over, trying to figure out what was wrong. It only took him a few more moments to realize how badly Sherlock was struggling for breath. John reacted immediately; quickly out of his chair and reaching for the oxygen mask hanging on the wall. He placed it over his love’s nose and mouth and turned it on, remaining close until Sherlock’s breathing evened out again. As their heart rates began to slow, John became aware of the alarm sounding from Sherlock’s heart monitor. A nurse hurried in and looked them over, so John stepped back to allow her to do her job. She gently took his vitals and recorded them as John sank back into his chair.

“Nightmare,” he murmured quietly. “I think he had a nightmare and it worsened his coughing, making it harder to breathe.” He cringed even as he said the words, oblivious to the sympathetic look the nurse gave him before she left. He felt like he had failed Sherlock because he had fallen asleep, because he hadn’t been there and stopped the nightmare.

John wiped the sleep and exhausted from his eyes and laced his fingers with the sleeping man’s, gently pressing a kiss to each of his second knuckles. He would make sure he didn’t fail again as long as Sherlock was alive.

“I love you, you mad man…” He forced a laugh and kissed the middle of Sherlock’s hand. “But I’m here. God, I’m here for you. Let me help you.” He leaned back in the chair and split his focus between staying awake and monitoring the man in the bed.

The next move Sherlock made was slight shifting and twitching as he woke up and became aware of his surroundings again. His first real movement was to shove the oxygen mask off his face, cough weakly, and suck in a rattling breath. John leaned closer to his line of sight and offered a weak, tired smile. He said nothing for a moment, deciding to let Sherlock regain his surroundings and some of his breath before talking.

“John-“

“Right here, love. I’m right here, ‘Lock. What do you need?” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently and offered another smile.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to the water cup and John grabbed it, letting go of his hand so he could hold the straw steady. He watched as Sherlock took a few slow but long drinks, drinking half the cup before he stopped and coughed. A wince crossed his face and he weakly waved his hand, so John set the cup down and settled back into his chair, unable to hide the worry permanently wrinkling his brow.

“C-can’t forget-“ Sherlock coughed for a few moments, his body seeming to curl in on itself and cause him more pain. “-it… keep s-seeing it.”

John allowed his thumb to stroke across Sherlock’s hand, weighing his options carefully before he said anything. “Do you… want to try to talk about it? Just to me? What you’re seeing, what you can’t forget?” He made sure to keep his voice soft and gentle and tried to reassure Sherlock that it was okay to say no. At least for now. “Maybe… if you talk about it in the past tense—because it’s over now, love—you can trick your mind—your marvelous, brilliant, wonderful mind—into deleting it.” Psychologically, he knew it had little chance of working, but he hoped that getting Sherlock to talk about it would at least help a little.

He adjusted his grip on Sherlock’s hand and shifted so he could meet Sherlock’s eyes; the blue was more prominent now and they had a clarity that John hadn’t seen since before this had all happened. The beautiful eyes closed as Sherlock’s mouth opened, but he didn’t speak for several long moments.

“T-talking ‘bout it… Means I have to t-think about it…” He swallowed and leaned his head back, trying to focus on breathing, not coughing, and getting the words out.  “T-thinking means I have to… to relive it. I don’t wanna go back, John.” Sherlock’s eyes opened and sought John’s, a look of raw terror quickly passing through them, followed by pain. John felt his heart wither away at that, but forced his own hurt away.

“Shhh, love, my beautiful Sherlock. I’ll be here the entire time. I’ll hold your hand, I’ll check your pulse, I’ll give you water. I’ll kiss your fingers. I’ll be here the entire time so when it becomes too much, you can just stop and look at me. Just look at me and I’ll calm you down and when you feel ready, you can continue. We can go at your pace.” John realized he was talking quickly and took a deep breath to calm himself down. “You’re safe, my love, and I’ll do everything I can to prove that to you.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly and that panicked look returned for a moment. He licked at his lips and absently chewed on his lower lip until he started to cough more. John rubbed his hand until it passed, patiently waiting for what Sherlock had to say. “You can just talk to me at first,” he added when Sherlock said nothing. “But eventually you will have to talk to a licensed doctor, but I’ll be there too. And then we can go home.”

He could tell that Sherlock was starting to crack, that his desire to go home was stronger than nearly anything else. John understood that to some degree. After getting shot, the thought of being in London and surrounded by what he knew seemed better than any pain medication or doctor. Sherlock still shook his head though until John’s words registered in his dulled and nearly broken mind. He started to shake his head again but a nod came out instead and he whimpered softly.

“Oh, love,” John whispered, leaning slowly to press a tentative kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Oh, my love. We’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.” He took a deep breath and offered the water to Sherlock again who reluctantly finished it off. He said nothing until the cup was filled and drained again, giving Sherlock more time to consider his decision. “Do you want to talk to a doctor now?”

Sherlock picked at the fabric of the blanket that covered his body and stared intently at his lap, his brow furrowed deeply in pain and thought. His long legs shifted occasionally. A coughing fit stopped him as he started to speak and scared him into another few moments of silence. “I don’t… want to have to do it twice.” John smiled encouragingly and moved to stand, but Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightened considerably. “Promise me y-you’ll stay,” he begged.”

John sat back down and kissed Sherlock’s hand. “Of course I will. That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He pressed the nurse call button and leaned against the bed with the door in his line of sight. “You’ll be fine, love. You just have to tell this once and then we can start to forget it. You can focus on getting better, okay? Getting rid of that nasty cough?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up very slightly and faded quickly, but it was there. And the clarity remained in his eyes, only a little different from the fear and medication. John knew this man was nowhere close to being the old Sherlock, but he knew that it wouldn’t happen all at once. He would get bits and pieces of his love back and some would fade. He knew some things would be vastly different, but he didn’t care. As long as Sherlock was okay, both inside and outside. As long as Sherlock was alive and knew that John loved him. That’s all the army doctor could ask for now that he knew Sherlock Holmes was alive.


End file.
